


Fairweather Friends

by robotboy



Series: Flying Blind [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Interrogation, Isolation, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, oh my god they were cellmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 07:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: Cassian Andor is thrown in an Imperial prison cell with no lights. And a Mandalorian.
Relationships: Cassian Andor/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Series: Flying Blind [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698328
Comments: 220
Kudos: 438





	1. The Cell

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't intentionally write this as a lockdown fic, but here we are ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Content warning: there's an interrogation scene in a later chapter with beatings, electric shocks, asphyxiation, and a broken finger. In the first chapter, Mando has issues with eating due to the helmet.
> 
> I joked with blxcksqvadron about 'a moodboard for a fic set entirely in a dark room' and instead of nine black squares I got this beautiful piece:  
> 

Cassian wakes up the same way he always does: ready to fight.

Adrenaline floods his system and his hand is already at his hip. It slaps down to find his holster missing, blaster gone. His ears ring around the shouting and thumping of a close-quarters scuffle.

Elbows locked, fists raised. Cassian wills his head to stop spinning. A shaft of light at the end of the room—the cell. It’s a cell.

Two Stormtroopers, wrestling another captive into the room. Cassian had been fighting Stormtroopers. Eight of them had surrounded him. He remembers a baton in his peripheral vision. As if the memory has brought it roaring back, a dizzying ache next to his ear.

Knocked out. Locked up. Still disoriented. Open door. Freedom.

He hauls himself upright, but his legs aren’t obeying him yet. Leans on the wall, looks for an opening. The captive is fighting like a demon, barehanded and clearly injured under the plates of armour he’s still wearing. The Stormtroopers can’t be well-trained: one is sent tumbling by a sweeping kick, while the other is battling to keep a hold of his blaster as the captive tries to snatch it. The fallen trooper crawls out the doorway.

‘Just get him inside!’ he shouts, and the other trooper fires off a blaster shot. In the time it takes the captive to dodge, both Stormtroopers are outside, slamming the door shut.

The cell is pitch black. Cassian edges over, the wall taking most of his weight. He can’t conceal the shuffle of his feet: no point trying to mask his presence from the new cellmate.

‘Did you check for any more weapons?’ the Stormtrooper asks, on the other side of the door.

‘He’d’ve used them,’ the other one wheezes. ‘You wanna go back in?’

‘Nope,’ the voice is getting distant. They’re leaving. ‘If we’re lucky, he kills the other guy.’

They’re gone. Cassian leans against the door, fingers finding the seal. No handle, no keypad. His head is still swimming.

The captive is on the floor, catching his breath.

‘Hey,’ Cassian grunts. ‘You speak Basic?’

When the captive finally answers, he’s not where Cassian had guessed. So he moves quietly, even when injured.

‘Yeah.’

‘Were they right?’ Cassian asks. ‘Any hidden weapons?’

‘No,’ the captive says. Could be a lie.

Cassian closes his eyes. Even in darkness, it makes it easier to picture the last of what he’d seen before the door shut. An Imperial prison. The captive had been wearing plated armour. Distinctive helmet.

‘You a Mandalorian?’ he asks.

A long pause. So long, Cassian has already guessed the answer.

‘Yeah. What’re you?’

Cassian weighs the odds. Mandalorians fall everywhere in politics, but this one’s obviously no friend of the Empire.

‘I’m Cassian,’ he says.

It’s a common enough name, and it’s the one he was using for this job. No use lying.

He carries on searching the cell, moving loudly so the Mandalorian doesn’t spook.

‘You been in an Imperial cell before?’ he asks, voice pitched low.

‘On-world, yeah,’ the Mandalorian answers.

There’s a quiet humming underfoot: they’re on a prison ship.

‘How about a blackout?’

‘That what this is?’

‘Yeah, that’s what this is.’

Cassian stumbles at the corner, finding a bench that matches the one he woke up on. Scratchy bedding, but it smells clean. A waist-height panel at the end of the bench with a sonic shower behind it.On the back wall he feels out the seam of a small hatch—for dispensing food, he guesses. A faucet that dribbles water, two cups on the sink. A toilet behind another panel—just his luck that it’s on his side of the cell. That’s the full circuit.

The Mandalorian’s in the middle of the room. Cassian steps forward, staying out of kicking range.

‘Are you injured?’ he asks.

‘I’m fine,’ the Mandalorian snaps.

‘Good,’ Cassian says. ‘I need to get on your shoulders.’

‘What?’ the voice drips with bemusement.

‘There’s probably a microphone,’ Cassian explains. ‘I’m disabling it.’

‘Won’t they come back and fix it?’

‘You fight half as well as you did just now, it’s our way out,’ Cassian says.

‘Hmm.’

The air shifts, but there’s no sound as the Mandalorian gets up. A hand finds Cassian’s elbow, and Cassian approaches. It’s awkward, working by feel, but the Mandalorian interlaces his fingers into a stirrup. Cassian ends up with one foot on the Mandalorian’s shoulder, one knee pressed into his breastplate. He runs his fingers over the ceiling until he finds it: a small grille. It pops open with the right combination of twists, and Cassian yanks the wiring out.

‘What about cameras?’ the Mandalorian asks. He’s perfectly steady under Cassian.

‘No lights,’ Cassian shrugs. ‘Nothing to see.’

He fits the grille back in and crouches, placing a hand on each of the Mandalorian’s shoulders. He hops to the floor, muttering his thanks.

‘How long have you been in here?’ the Mandalorian asks. Cassian goes back to his bunk while the Mandalorian does his own reconnaissance.

‘Not much longer than you,’ Cassian says. ‘They knocked me out in a market on Glee Anselm. I came to when they brought you in.’

‘I was in the Jalor system,’ the Mandalorian says.

Cassian raises his eyebrows: it’s the first time the Mandalorian has offered information without being asked. ‘They’re probably circling the sector, picking up detainees. They’ll hold us here until an officer shows up and decides what to do.’

‘In a blackout?’ the Mandalorian asks.

‘Yeah,’ Cassian sighs. ‘It’s a detainment strategy. Makes you lose track of time. Harder for us to bond.’

_‘Bond?’_

‘Become friends; cooperate; plan an escape,’ Cassian says. ‘Difficult to trust someone if you can’t see their face.’

An audible shift, this time: the Mandalorian has moved, and he doesn’t care if Cassian knows it. ‘Does it work?’

‘Guess we’ll find out,’ Cassian settles himself on the bunk, carding his fingers through his hair. He cringes when he finds the egg on his scalp, where the baton struck him. It’s sore, but not bleeding. ‘Speaking of which.’

‘What?’ the Mandalorian is near the back wall, exploring the room himself.

‘They hit me on the head,’ Cassian says. ‘If I go quiet, can you check me for a concussion?’

The faucet turns on and off, the stream interrupted while the Mandalorian tests the water. ‘Sure.’

‘Great,’ Cassian says. ‘Means I can’t go quiet.’

‘Okay,’ the Mandalorian has found the fresher facilities, and is moving toward Cassian’s bunk. ‘So talk.’

Cassian draws a heavy breath. He’s sabotaged the microphone, but there’s no way of knowing if the Mandalorian’s been planted to tempt secrets out of him. He racks his brains for small talk. ‘I ate fried snails for breakfast this morning. You ever tried them?’

‘Nope,’ the Mandalorian passes his bunk. Cassian gets a whiff of leather in his wake.

’Slimy,’ Cassian says. ‘But it mostly tastes like butter.’

‘You’re not selling it.’

Cassian snorts. A cellmate and a comedian. ‘Probably better than what they’ll feed us.’

‘You’ve done this before,’ the Mandalorian notes.

‘Yep,’ Cassian sighs.

‘So you’ve escaped before,’ comes the prompt.

‘With help,’ Cassian admits.

‘A cellmate?’

Suspicious. Like Cassian would walk over his back for a shot at freedom.

He would.

‘My partner, Kay,’ Cassian says. _Kay_ works like _Cassian,_ anonymous enough to an outsider. ‘He usually gets me out of trouble.’

‘You’re an optimist.’

A laugh barks out of Cassian. ‘Don’t think anyone’s ever called me that. Except maybe Kay.’

‘Can’t imagine why,’ the Mandalorian drawls.

‘So,’ Cassian sits up. ‘What do I call you?’

‘Some people use _Mando,’_ he tells Cassian.

‘Huh,’ Cassian nods. ‘That must get confusing around other Mandalorians.’

‘That’s not what other Mandalorians call me,’ comes the answer.

‘Okay,’ Cassian minds his own business. ‘Mando. What brings you to the Jalor system?’

‘A job.’

‘You don’t say,’ Cassian rolls his eyes, since Mando can’t see him.

‘You?’

‘A job,’ Cassian echoes. ‘Employer never mentioned there’d be Imperial trouble.’

‘Funny how they leave that out.’

Cassian laughs, just to hear it ring off the walls.

Spies know how to talk about nothing. They discuss the last time they were on Coruscant and which bars are worth visiting. The conversation turns to their preferred blasters: Mando likes a powerful, long range while Cassian goes for snub-nosed and concealable. It’s talking shop, without ever bringing up what kind of shop they’re in. The general business of killing people.

Cassian guesses two hours pass that way. He’s sat on his bunk with his back against the wall, elbows propped on his knees. He leans his head back, talking to the ceiling. It’s so dark, he forgets for a moment that his eyes are open.

A hand in his hair. Cassian lashes out, grabbing the wrist and twisting himself away from the attacker.

‘Hey, _hey,’_ the Mandalorian breaks his grip easily. ‘You went quiet.’

Cassian’s nostrils flare, his heart racing. He tries to recall what he’d been talking about, and realises he’d lost the thread somewhere.

‘Right,’ he shuffles, a little embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’

‘Let me check your head,’ Mando says. It’s not the kind of tone that brokers argument.

Cassian tries not to flinch when he feels fingers on his scalp. Mando finds the swelling on his skull, and feels around the rest of it. It’s not much more than Cassian had done earlier.

‘Can’t check your pupils,’ Mando mutters. ‘Any way you can ice it?’

‘The water’s cold,’ Cassian says.

Mando sighs. ‘Better than nothing.’

Footsteps. The faucet trickles, and Cassian listens to the echoing water change in pitch as Mando fills a cup.

‘Hold out your hand.’

Cassian reaches forward, and Mando’s searching fingers find his own, pressing the cup into his palm. Without anything else to focus on, Cassian is distracted by the heat from Mando’s skin and the chilly metal. He tilts his neck and presses the side of the cup gently against the bruise, trying not to spill any water as Mando feels around, checking he’s positioned it properly.

‘No night vision in that helmet, then?’ Cassian asks.

‘My circuits got fried,’ Mando grumbles. ‘Shock baton.’

Cassian hisses sympathetically.

It’s only in hindsight that Cassian realises around now, as Mando’s fingers were slipping by the curve of his ear, was when he started to believe Mando was telling the truth.

*

The hatch at the back of the room clatters, and Cassian’s on his feet. There’s a rush of air: Mando is up as well. From the hatch comes a rustling, a hiss, and then something falls to the floor as the hatch clangs shut again.

Mando is there first, Cassian beside him. It’s two ration packs, and Cassian holds one out as an offer. He connects with Mando’s knee, though: Mando is investigating the hatch.

‘It’s not gonna be wider than the packs,’ Cassian sighs.

‘Could jam it,’ Mando says.

‘That’s assuming we know when they’ll put food through again,’ Cassian takes both packs to the sink, peeling off the packaging. ‘If they’re smart, they’ll keep it irregular.’

‘Harder to keep track of time?’ Mando guesses.

‘And to keep us hungry,’ Cassian scowls. Any alliance they’ve formed so far will unravel if they need to fight or starve. Cassian knows his chances against an armoured Mandalorian. His fingers trace around the edge of a portion as he considers tearing it off and hiding it for later.

No. Better to eat while he can, and be stronger if it comes to that.

He pours a little water in each portion, guessing from the texture how much liquid they need. He ends up with dry bread and a stone-cold stew, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than snails.

‘Want me to do yours?’ he asks, moving his sheet of food to the bunk.

‘No.’

Cassian shrugs, dipping his bread in the stew. He eats slowly, and his stomach rumbles at the second bite. He hadn’t been hungry when his head was still spinning, but the more he eats, the more he wants to. So it’s been hours since breakfast: probably night.

He’s picking for crumbs when he realises he hasn’t heard the faucet.

‘You’re not eating?’ he asks.

‘No.’

‘Suit yourself.’

Mando doesn’t eat it later. He still hasn’t eaten it when they’re woken by another clatter-rustle-clang and two more portions are spat into their cell. The hours between the second dispatch and the third stretch so long that Cassian gets jittery—and he’s used to missing meals.

Mando still doesn’t eat any.

Cassian tosses the ration pack at Mando’s bed. A flurry of movement follows, and Mando grunts. Then silence. Cassian approaches, finding Mando by his shoulder armour first, then the tangled cape. Mando is slumped against the wall of his bunk, ration pack sliding down his lap.

‘Hey,’ Cassian taps his breastplate.

‘Hmm?’ groggy. Listless.

‘Wake up,’ Cassian says. This time he prods lower, reaching flesh. Mando squirms, a hand batting him away.

 _‘Hey,’_ Cassian flicks the helmet. Mando grabs his wrist, a proper grip this time, and sits up.

 _‘What?’_ Mando spits.

‘Eat,’ Cassian says, backing off.

‘No.’

‘What, are you on hunger strike?’ Cassian mutters, as he sets about rehydrating his own meal. ‘Cause that’s not gonna work here.’

’No.’

Mando must have said _no_ more than any other word put together, the last two days.

‘You’re not eating when I’m asleep,’ Cassian notes. He’s too light a sleeper: he’d have heard the faucet.

‘I’m fine.’

‘No you’re not,’ Cassian has never had a good temper when he’s starved. He takes a bite from a meat patty before continuing. ‘You move louder, when you move at all. You’re slower to respond. If you’re human, you’ve gone too long without water.’

‘What’s it to you?’ even his voice is thinner.

‘My best chance at getting out of here is with a well-fed Mandalorian at my side. You think they’ll come check on you when you faint? You think they won’t let you rot in here?’

Mando sighs. ‘It’s not that.’

‘Whatever it is,’ Cassian licks at a fibre caught in his teeth. ‘You need to eat.’

A long pause. Cassian tosses his empty tray to one side and stands up.

‘Are you human?’ Mando asks. His tone is sharper now. Better.

‘Yes,’ Cassian answers.

‘Prove it,’ Mando says, and Cassian wrinkles his nose in confusion.

‘You felt my head when you were checking for a concussion,’ Cassian reminds him. ‘Did it feel human?

‘You can’t see in the dark,’ Mando says, not quite a question.

‘You heard my knee hitting the toilet this morning, what do _you_ think?’

It had not been Cassian’s finest hour. But dignity is a luxury, and wherever Mando’s line of questioning is going, he needs convincing.

‘Face the door.’

Cassian grits his teeth, but he complies.

‘There,’ he announces. ‘What are you—?’

Mando’s hands find his shoulders, then his neck, and his jaw. Confirming he’s telling the truth. Cassian keeps still: the touch is gentle, but it’s a lot. Only Kay would manhandle him so confidently.

One hand withdraws, as Mando comes to stand at his side. A whisper of air at his cheek.

Cassian reaches up, frowning when he discovers a closed fist held an inch from his face.

‘Were you trying to punch me?’

‘You didn’t flinch.’

‘I didn’t _see_ you.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’ Cassian snaps. But he doesn’t move.

‘Face to the door,’ Mando instructs him, then adds: ‘Please.’

Cassian takes a deep breath, resting his forehead against the door. ‘Whatever you want.’

He listens to Mando moving behind him. A deep breath, a long exhale. A quiet _tink_ of metal touching the duracrete of the bunk.

Mando turns the faucet, filling a cup. Cassian holds his breath until he hears a gulp.

‘Take it slow,’ he suggests.

Mando pauses—did Cassian startle him? The next sip is smaller, slower.

‘You’ll get sick if you rush it,’ Cassian continues. ‘You _really_ didn’t have any water?’

‘I couldn’t take my helmet off,’ Mando murmurs.

‘What, it was jammed?’ Cassian’s brow crumples, still pressed to the door.

The wrapping of the ration pack is torn back, and Mando turns the faucet on again. He rehydrates each portion without answering. Then realisation hits Cassian.

‘You’re one of _those_ Mandalorians.’

He can’t see Mando roll his eyes, but he knows, instinctively, that it’s happened. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s a helmet. Is it really worth starving for?’ Cassian asks. ‘Worth dying for?’

‘You’re a mercenary,’ Mando retorts. ‘Is money worth dying for?’

‘Depends how much money,’ Cassian says. Sure, he’d die for the Rebellion—almost has, plenty of times—but that _means_ something. It’s not a symbol.

He hears chewing. Something tight, something he hadn’t noticed before, unwinds inside his chest.

‘I know a Mandalorian,’ Cassian says, because somehow standing at the door is more boring than standing anywhere else in this cell.

‘Hmm,’ Mando answers with his mouth full. Cassian grins. ‘What house?’

Cassian squints as he tries to remember. ‘Vizsla?’

A snort of derision. Cassian bites back a smile at touching a nerve.

‘She’s friendly,’ he continues. ‘Creative, too. Nothing like you.’

A chuckle. Cassian’s cheeks heat up.

‘A good fighter, though,’ Cassian adds.

‘We all are,’ Mando agrees.

Cassian cocks his head. Mando’s voice is smoother without the helmet, his consonants softer.

‘She saved my life,’ Cassian says. ‘Blew a Black Sun cannon to pieces.’

There’s a particular sort of sound that Cassian suspects is Mando licking crumbs off his fingers.

‘That’s good,’ he says it with enough sincerity to surprise Cassian.

‘You think so?’ Cassian asks. ‘You wouldn’t have gone hungry for two days.’

‘Would’ve been longer,’ Mando says. ‘Need someone blocking the door.’

‘Oh, that’s what I’m doing?’ Cassian pulls away an inch, feeling for the door’s edge. Nothing happens.

‘It better be.’

The tray crinkles, and Cassian hears another cup of water being drunk. Then the scrape of the helmet being picked up.

‘Okay.’

He notices the tinniness, now he knows to listen for it.

A hand at his elbow, guiding him back to his bunk. Cassian taps on it: it’s meant to mean _I got this,_ but their fingers brush at an odd angle. He pulls away, sitting on the bunk. His shoulders hunch and he picks dirt he’s not sure exists from his nails.

For a while, there’s silence.

‘Cassian,’ Mando murmurs, so quiet it almost gets lost in the dark. ‘Thanks.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Cassian says, and it’s true: the favour is nothing. The way _Cassian_ sounds in that deep lilt, though: maybe that’s something.


	2. The Routine

The darkness is meant to make them go crazy. Cassian’s pretty sure it’s not working.

Cassian jogs circuits of the room, burning off restless energy. Mando tries to fashion a shiv from the packaging of their rations, and even though it’s a spectacular failure it keeps them both busy. Mando teaches Cassian a few words in Mando’a, and he has hours of patience for Cassian’s pronunciation. Cassian has a knack for getting dehydrated bread to rise, while Mando has been hoarding soups to mix with rice in combinations that taste half-good.

There are only so many ways to kill the time. Cassian lies in his bunk for hours while Mando takes his turn pacing. His ears are pricked for Mando’s footfalls, and he’s not sure he’s actually hearing them so much as extrapolating from the rhythm he occasionally picks up. The air stirs when Mando turns, cape sweeping. Cassian times his breathing with it, inhaling leather and cloth and sweat: better than the processed ship air that comes through a hand-sized vent they spent yesterday trying to prise open. _Yesterday_ is a relative term: they kill time together guessing how many hours pass between ration dispatches, and browbeat each other into some approximation of a sleep cycle.

Mando turns sharply enough to stir Cassian’s hair. He has a long, loping pace, as relentless as a wolf. He’s agile, and quick when he wants to be, but sparing with words and effort the rest of the time. He works alone, Cassian has gleaned. Cassian suspects that the lack of solitude is grating Mando’s nerves, not in the least because Cassian’s word is the only guarantee that he can take off his helmet in privacy.

Five days, give or take. No hint of the outside world: not even the sound of a guard patrolling the corridor. Cassian chews the inside of his lip—the side that isn’t bleeding from being chewed yesterday. He runs his tongue over the swollen copper tang, tracing the indentation of his own teeth. Five days, if it is five days. Still time to make the rendezvous.

Cassian cracks each knuckle. He cranes his neck until his shoulder pops. He pinches the bridge of his nose to coax his sinuses clear, then trails his finger down to the tip, pressing until he reaches cartilage and flaring his nostrils.

Mando turns again. Salt and linen.

It won’t take long to get to the sector, once he’s back with Kay. The informant is skittish, though. He’ll turn tail at the first sign of Imps, whether Cassian makes the window or not. No dead drops this time. The information is too sensitive, apparently, even if dead drops are safer than live intel. Cassian scowls, and bites a matching mark on the inside of his lip. So much for that.

He rubs a hand across his cheeks, thumb following the line of his upper lip. Is it five days’ worth of beard? He scratches, even though it doesn’t itch. Four days, maybe.

Still time for the rendezvous.

Mando stills. Cassian’s heart keeps beating in the rhythm of his step, though.

‘You’re not a gun for hire.’

Cassian wonders what led him to figure it out.

‘I am,’ Cassian looks at the ceiling, stretching his toes. ‘I’ve just had the one employer for a long time.’

‘How long?’

’Twenty years.’

Mando exhales. People usually do, when the numbers don’t add up. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Thought I was older?’ Cassian smirks.

‘For a minute,’ Mando starts circling again.

‘What about you?’

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘Huh,’ Cassian raises his eyebrows at the coincidence.

‘Thought I was younger?’

‘Yeah,’ Cassian admits. ‘Are you with the Guild?’

‘Not right now,’ Mando mutters.

It tracks. The Empire has a growing affiliation with the Bounty Hunter’s Guild, so they wouldn’t go throwing a member in prison. That probably means nobody’s coming to get Mando.

Cassian puts the thought away. Better to worry about the rendezvous.

*

Anything can become the new normal, if it means surviving.

The low humming reaches his spine first, too deep to be heard. A rolling, building resonance, so familiar that Cassian isn’t immediately awake: sleep clings to him like a receding tide. The dark makes it so tempting to slide back under, even as the uneven buzzing of the shower gets louder as it hauls itself into functioning. For the first time in a week, Cassian isn’t alert, ready to strike.

He’d been dreaming about sunshine. About hazy golden warmth filtered through the loose weave of handmade blankets, of nestling snug and warm with—he curls in on himself in reality, remembering another body.

It hadn’t been Mando, it had been—the memory of the dream slips through his fingers—how could it be Mando? Only there’s been nobody else on Cassian’s mind lately, and the details fade away until only the feeling remains. The feeling is a glowing, insistent arousal like he hasn’t felt in weeks.

Cassian draws a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He grinds the heel of his palm against his crotch, and listens to the shower running. Mando must have taken the opportunity to undress while Cassian was sleeping: Cassian would have offered to guard the door.

He’d love to indulge: it would be like rewarding his subconscious for dredging up something other than nightmares. He’d love for his guard to stay so low that he could feel good, feel _human,_ for a few minutes.

He’d love to know what Mando looks like in the shower right now.

There’s etiquette for this: you ignore your cellmate’s needs until they’re taken care of. Cassian could, and Mando wouldn’t mention it. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice, with the volume of the sonic shower. Or maybe Cassian is kidding himself, but as his hand slips under his waistband, he can’t manage to care.

The shower finally kicks into gear, thrumming so hard it makes the bunk shiver. Cassian sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as he gets his hand around his dick. Just a squeeze, to take the edge off.

His eyes roll back, lashes fluttering, He can feel his heartbeat in his palm.

The edge is not off.

He shuffles his waistband down, and his cock springs free. Before he can think, he’s swiping his tongue over his palm and diving back for more. He’s not wasting time: he knows exactly what he likes, so he swipes through the bead of slick at the head of his cock and circles, nudging the foreskin and dragging his fingers down the shaft. A pump, a twist, quick strokes to outpace the rhythmic thumping of the shower.

Mando sighs, and Cassian lets himself echo it.

He’s still molten and honey-sweet from the dream, close to coming already. His left hand clenches uselessly. If he were alone, he’d fondle his balls, might slide a finger into himself and rut into completion. But this isn’t about that: this is about the pressure that’s been building in the room between each endless black hour. Between the fingers that card through Cassian’s hair to check he’s facing away, between their thighs as they talk side by side, between the static-charged hairs on Cassian’s arm that stand on end when Mando walks past. This is between—

The shower shuts off.

The sudden silence rings in Cassian’s ears. His hips are lifted off the bunk, toes curled as he freezes. He wills his heart to slow down before he breathes out, slow and silent, his nails biting into the meat of his palms.

He eases down by millimetres, until his ass is on the bed.

Mando is dressing. It’s in whispers of fabric and muted groans of straps.

Cassian’s nostrils flare. He stinks of sex. He’s still so hard it hurts.

The air in the room stirs, sending up flares of goosebumps everywhere his skin is exposed. Mando’s cape, sweeping as he moves.

Could be he thinks Cassian’s asleep.

‘Shower’s free,’ Mando announces.

So this is the new normal.

*

How long has it been? A week? Two?

Cassian is trying to break into the air vent again when his eardrums suddenly squeeze. Mando growls, feeling it as well.

‘Hyperspace,’ Cassian mutters.

‘Where do you think we’re going?’

Mando has figured out that Cassian has a working knowledge of Imperial strategy.

‘Could be anywhere,’ Cassian wrinkles his nose, wriggling a wedge of ration wrapping between the grille and the wall. ‘Delivering another prisoner, delivering one of us. Could be part of their route.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Hey,’ Cassian grinds his teeth. ‘Have you got something hard I can use to pry this open?’

A pause. A sigh.

‘You want my armour.’

‘If that’s what you’ve got,’ Cassian shrugs. He considers saying _I could wait until you’re in the shower,_ but he doesn’t want to piss off the only person he has to talk to.

Mando crouches beside him, and Cassian shuffles over to give him space. There’s a clinking of buckles, then Mando finds Cassian’s hand in the dark.

‘Show me where.’

Cassian guides him to the gap, and Mando feels it out. His fingers are wider than Cassian’s, less tapered at the tips. Not so suited for fine work: more suited to—

Cassian swallows, concentrating on the vent. There’s a clatter of metal on metal, and Mando grunts.

‘You try it.’

A thin sheet is passed into his hands. It’s about the right size to be a hip plate: he marvels silently at how light it is. The edge is curved, but it might be narrow enough to fit. He guides the point into the gap beside the folded-up wrapping, wriggling it around. It’s awkwardly curved for leveraging, still warm from being strapped to Mando’s flank.

The edge skitters out of the gap, and Cassian swears.

‘Try again.’

Mando’s voice is patient. Cassian shakes his head at the oddly encouraging tone.

It takes longer this time, checking the wedge is still in place and nudging the armour in beside it.

‘Here,’ Mando sets Cassian’s forefinger and thumb around the edge. ‘Keep it straight.’

Cassian rests his palm on the plate so it doesn’t fall out of alignment. Mando stands, and then he’s pushing down, driving the armour deeper into the gap. The grille shrieks as it starts to warp. The armour sinks suddenly into the free space, and both of them jolt.

‘You got it?’ Mando asks.

‘I got it.’

‘I’m gonna try to pry it,’ Mando tells him.

‘Give me a second,’ Cassian grabs more pieces of ration wrappers, pushing them into the corners of the wider gap they’ve created. He’s so preoccupied by the task that he doesn’t think about where he’s positioned. Then linen brushes past his cheek and he gasps in surprise, getting a noseful of musk. He’s kneeling right in front of Mando’s hips.

Cassian licks his lips, suddenly aware of how dry everything feels. Then he inches away like he hadn’t noticed Mando’s proximity.

‘You good?’

‘Yeah?’ his throat catches. ‘Give it a try.’

Mando’s hands are on the upper edge of the hip plate, his weight bearing down on it. Cassian can feel him shaking with effort, and the metal of the grille makes intermittent noises as the pressure prises it away from the wall.

Finally Mando stops, panting roughly. His back thumps against the wall while he catches his breath, and Cassian feels around the gap. It’s as big as the plate can make it, with the leverage they have. He jiggles it free, passing it back to Mando.

‘Thanks,’ Mando takes it, strapping it back on. ‘How big’s the gap?’

‘I could get a hand in,’ Cassian says. ‘Maybe not you.’

Cassian knows the span of Mando’s palm, the wide thumb joint and the solid wrist. He blinks, realising he’s familiar with the patterns of hair across the backs of Mando’s fingers, and the wrinkle of each knuckle, the broad nailbeds and smooth fingertips. There’s a scar on the web of his left thumb, round and raised. Cassian’s stumbled across the details as they’ve navigated the cell in one way or another.

He wonders if he’s ever known anyone else’s hands that well.

Cassian shuffles up to the wall, finding the best angle to reach in. He twists his arm so far his elbow makes a wet clicking noise. Mando hisses through his nose in sympathy, while Cassian presses his fingers together, tucking his thumb in to squeeze into the gap. It takes a bit of wriggling, and he exhales, reminding his joints to loosen up, ignoring how the metal pinches the fragile skin on the back of his hand.

 _‘Yes,’_ he mutters, feeling his way around the inside of the vent. The corner of the wall scrapes the inside of his wrist.

‘Anything?’ Mando asks.

‘Not yet…’ Cassian grunts, his balance wobbling where he’s crouched.

A hand settles on his lower back. Mando steadies him with a palm resting on Cassian’s spine. If Cassian wasn’t aware of how wide those fingers were before, he’d know from the way they almost reach both his hipbones.

Cassian holds his breath, stretching as far as he can. He taps the walls of the vent: solid duracrete. It’s about fifteen centimetres wide: no chance of crawling down it. The air moves, but faintly. Cassian guesses there’s a fan further in, but that’s not much use.

‘Nothing,’ he reports.

‘Yet,’ Mando says.

Cassian grumbles as he prises his arm free. He’s not as cautious on the way out, snagging his hand on the warped grille. He drops to his ass on the floor, flexing his wrist.

Mando sits beside him. ‘Thanks.’

Cassian frowns. ‘For what?’

Mando reaches out, taking Cassian’s hand and rubbing over each joint. ‘For checking it out.’

He squeezes one of Cassian’s knuckles until it pops. His thumb drives into the tendons in Cassian’s wrist, easing out the pressure. Cassian’s eyes roll back.

Mando finds the scratch on Cassian’s hand: Cassian might have flinched, a little, when he touched it. Mando moves away, and Cassian realises how warm he’d been a moment ago, then the faucet sounds and Mando is back at his side. He dabs the wound with wet cloth: Cassian thinks it’s the sleeve of Mando’s shirt, stretched up around his thumb.

‘Didn’t ask you to do that,’ Cassian mumbles, but he doesn’t pull away when Mando goes back to massaging his fingers. It’s workmanlike, putting him through the kind of stretches Cassian should be doing more often. Cassian hisses as his wrist pops and loosens, Mando pulling the tension out. He digs firmly into the meat of Cassian’s palm, then interlaces their fingers until Cassian’s are extended properly, knuckles cracking. Cassianhas to bite back a groan of satisfaction.

If it were any gentler, Cassian would have pulled away, insisting he was fine. Mando might have guessed that. Any harder, and Cassian might melt. Then Mando could pour him down the drain of the sink: the perfect escape. Cassian snorts softly.

‘What’s this?’ Cassian hears the rasp in his own voice.

‘Hmm?’ Mando keeps going, but his touch slows.

Cassian traces his finger over the scar below Mando’s left thumb, drawing a circle around it.

A huff of breath escapes Mando, almost a laugh. ‘Flamethrower nozzle. Didn’t realise it was still hot.’

Cassian nods. Mando’s thumb moves reflexively, the scar contorting under Cassian’s fingers.

‘It’s blue,’ he adds.

‘What’s blue?’ Cassian asks. He lays his hand along the back of Mando’s, comparing the size. Mando turns his wrist, so they’re palm to palm.

‘The scar,’ he explains. ‘It looks blue.’

‘Really?’ Cassian’s brow wrinkles.

‘Mm-hm,’ Mando’s fingers curl, tapping on Cassian’s. ‘Chemical reaction in the flamethrower.’

Cassian is lost, a moment, thinking something about chemical reactions. He opens his mouth, and instead of words there’s just breath, as soft and shaky as his fingers.

The wall rattles. Both of them are on their feet, Cassian dropping into a fighting stance as Mando does the same beside him.

Then his brain catches up with his ears and he realises it’s their rations, falling through the hatch. Cassian swears, and Mando sets about getting the portions unwrapped.

Cassian sighs, running his hands through his hair. It falls back in his face immediately.

‘You want me to watch the door?’ he offers.

Mando pauses. Cassian’s heart is still pounding behind his teeth.

‘Why don’t you—?‘ Mando mumbles, hesitating. ‘You could eat too.’

‘Sure,’ Cassian answers, like it’s no big deal. ‘You want me to prep it, while you…?’

He trails off. _Take your helmet off_ feels taboo to even say.

‘I got it,’ there’s a smile in Mando’s voice. Like Cassian’s such a bad cook he can’t rehydrate rations.

They eat without talking, and it’s true: Mando somehow does have a knack for making it taste better.

When Mando passes him a piece of dried fruit, left hand tucking it carefully into Cassian’s right, for a moment all Cassian can think is: _it’s blue._


	3. The Revelation

Cassian’s back hits the ground, and he braces himself for another punch.

It doesn’t land: instead, a forearm lands across his chest, pinning him to the ground. Cassian huffs, the air knocked out of him again, and aims a kick.

Mando grunts, his knee going out from under him. Cassian uses the brief reprieve to slither free, jabbing a curled-finger strike at Mando’s waist to buy some time. He hops into a crouch, checking he’s not too close to the wall. He listens, but Mando is silent: Cassian realises how much Mando must have been signaling his movements until now. So Cassian gets the angle wrong when Mando charges at him, catching a fist to the shoulder before he spins, steering Mando’s momentum over his back and sending him crashing to the floor.

Cassian grins. This is the most fun he’s had since they met.

With the armour off to even the odds, Mando is still heavier than Cassian. But Cassian’s trained to use every advantage as a weakness: Mando’s bulk is in his shoulders, and his helmet’s still on. A high centre of gravity that Cassian can easily upset. They’re both quick fighters, but they’re clumsy from avoiding the instinct to fight dirty and deadly. This makes it more fun, anyway: the puzzle of how to keep their wits sharp without killing each other.

A sweeping kick hits Cassian in the shin, but he manages to keep himself from falling. If Mando gets him on the ground again, it’s over: Cassian’s advantage is in stealth and precision, not strength. Cassian makes himself a moving target, waiting for another limb to lash out in his direction. The rush of air is Cassain’s only warning: Mando’s up, barreling toward Cassian to slam him into the wall, following with a knee to the stomach.

Cassian lets out an _oof,_ his forehead bouncing against the helmet. He hits Mando’s solar plexus to force him away, following with an elbow to the kidney. This time he staggers free, waiting a moment in case Mando wants to tap out.

Two arms wrap around his chest from behind, lifting him off the ground. Cassian’s heel smacks against Mando’s shin, to no effect. His fingers scrabble over the helmet, and he tries to find purchase to pry himself free.

Mando’s hand grips his throat, just for a second. Only a warning. Then Mando drives him down again, so Cassian’s face is pressed to the floor, a knee firmly on his lower back.

Cassian’s head is spinning as he weighs up his options. He goes limp under Mando, and the pressure lifts slightly. The moment Cassian tries to break free, it’s back. This time Mando grabs his wrists, pinning them uncomfortably under the knee.

Cassian gasps, sweat coalescing at the tip of his nose. He’s not going to give in, even as Mando prompts him with a nudge.

‘Come on,’ Mando’s voice is getting raw with exertion.

Cassian rotates his wrist curiously, and Mando pushes harder. The ache of it is incredible.

There’s no way Cassian’s breaking free. That doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it while it lasts.

Mando’s hand rests on the back of his neck. Not a threat, just a suggestion: _settle._

Cassian holds his breath a moment longer, as much as he can with Mando’s weight bearing down on him. Then he exhales.

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

Cassian taps his hand awkwardly against Mando’s knee. ‘We’re done.’

The moment Mando eases away, Cassian boosts himself off the ground. Mando hesitates like he thinks Cassian’s feigning, and that’s when Cassian notices it. The back of his thigh slides past Mando’s hip and presses for a moment against Mando’s hard cock. Cassian keeps moving like he hasn’t noticed, slouching to one side to catch his breath.

It happens easily, during a fight: no need to mention it.

Cassian gets up, making his way to the sink and filling two cups. He bumps Mando gently with his foot and Mando takes the offered water. There’s the quiet click of the helmet being set down and Mando’s satisfied sigh before he takes a long gulp.

‘You’re not used to fighting without weapons,’ Cassian observes.

‘You’re not used to fighting without killing,’ Mando replies.

Cassian drinks half his water, splashing the rest over his face. It trickles through his beard and down his throat, cooling his rushing pulse.

He’s hard too, but there’s no need to mention that either.

*

Cassian shuts off the shower, and reaches for his shirt. It’s still damp: he’d given it the best wash he could manage in the sink after their wrestling match yesterday. His pants are in a similar state, draped over the panel to dry.

‘Hey,’ Mando says.

There’s an invitation in the tone. Cassian wraps a blanket around his waist, and sits on the bunk beside Mando.

‘Clothes aren’t dry yet,’ he explains, in case Mando somehow notices. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’

Mando’s been washing his own gear in stages, never staying undressed. Cassian has no complaints about the smell: it’s reassuringly alive. Mando shuffles, so they’re shoulder-to-shoulder. The pauldron is chilly on Cassian’s bare skin, but the padded shirt underneath it is warm to the touch.

‘You found my flamethrower scar,’ Mando says. ‘What about yours?’

‘My what?’ Cassian frowns, before it clicks. ‘Scars?’

‘If you’ve got them out.’

Mando knows perfectly well Cassian is wearing nothing except a blanket. Cassian could say no. Could deny having any. Mando’s tone is more bored than inquisitive: he wouldn’t push it. But it’s so rare he asks questions.

‘Okay.’

Cassian bends his arm, pulling the skin of his bicep tight. He grabs Mando’s hand, guiding it to the patch that he knows is shiny and wrinkled at the edges.

‘That a burn?’ Mando asks.

‘From a blaster’, Cassian says.

‘It’s big.’

‘Almost lost the arm,’ Cassian agrees. ‘My droid put me back together.’

‘You trust a droid to treat that?’

‘You wouldn’t?’ Cassian frowns.

‘You’d just as likely lose the arm.’

‘Not with this droid.’

‘Alright,’ the skepticism is glaring. ‘Your life to gamble.’

‘Droids saved my homeworld,’ Cassian says. It’s not an argument, exactly, but maybe he’s bored enough to defend it.

‘They decimated mine.’

Cassian squeezes the scar, feeling the skin contort under his palm.

‘You’re not from Mandalore,’ he realises.

It makes sense. He has the fervour of a convert. Cassian would know, adopted Rebel that he is.

‘Never said I was,’ Mando doesn’t leave room in his tone for Cassian to question it.

‘So what about you?’ Cassian asks. ‘Any other scars, or does the armour keep you in one piece?’

It’s not the smoothest segue, but it’s one way to say it: he’s a Mandalorian.

‘Here,’ Mando shuffles, pulling up his sleeve. ‘Find the break.’

Cassian traces the bone of his forearm, defined sharply between muscles. He startles when the angle changes, an uncanny tilt where the bone has healed.

‘I was the new kid once,’ Mando sighs. ‘And not the biggest.’

Cassian hisses through his teeth. ‘Does it still hurt?’

‘No,’ Mando’s voice is barely louder than a breath. Cassian studies the break, gliding from wrist to elbow: he’d never have known if Mando hadn’t drawn attention to it.

‘Oh, I’ve got a…’ he remembers, bending forward and feeling around for it. ‘On my shoulder.’

He rearranges himself so his back is pointed at Mando. He taps the spot, so Mando can find it by sound.

‘What am I looking for?’ Mando’s fingers trail over his skin.

Cassian rolls his shoulder, and Mando makes an uncomfortable sound of surprise.

‘Shrapnel,’ Cassian explains. ‘It got stuck under there.’

‘You never thought about taking it out?’ Mando finds the outline of the shard, prodding it. It’s not the most pleasant feeling, but Cassian laughs at his morbid curiosity.

‘Waste of bacta,’ he shrugs, and the nub shifts.

‘That’s… _ugh_ ,’ Mando admits, bemused.

‘You asked.’

‘I did.’

‘What else have you got?’ Cassian turns back to face him.

‘Hm,’ Mando rummages, straps and clothing brushing Cassian as they’re pulled aside. Mando props his foot up on the bunk and guides Cassian’s hand to his knee. At first all Cassian notices is hair and sinew, then he discovers the long gnarled scar that runs from kneecap down Mando’s shin, continuing into his boot.

‘Did you fall?’ Cassian guesses.

‘Speeder bike crash,’ Mando says. ‘The armour doesn’t cover everything.’

Cassian hisses in sympathy. It must have been a hell of a gouge, once. ‘What kind of terrain?’

‘Rocks,’ Mando says. ‘It was a long stretch of beach, chasing a target. He banked hard enough to force a crash, I jumped, landed bad.’

‘Could have landed a lot worse.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did he live?’

’Nah, the bikes exploded. But the contract was dead or alive, so…’

‘Worth getting a leg full of dirt?’

‘Bounty just about covered surgery.’

Cassian clicks his tongue, and Mando rolls the cuff of his pants back down. His foot stays propped, and Cassian’s hand falls between them.

For a moment, everything is still.

‘What did the—‘

‘—There’s one…’

Both of them pause. Cassian clears his throat.

‘What were you going to say?’ he prompts.

‘What was the shrapnel from?’ Mando asks.

‘Right,’ Cassian nods. ‘Frag grenade.’

‘Imperial?’

‘Yeah,’ Cassian says. ‘My partner caught the worst of it.’

‘Kay, right?’

‘Yeah, Kay,’ Cassian smiles. ‘We were pinned behind a row of crates. He kicked the grenade away while I covered the package.’

‘You still think he’s coming?’ Mando asks.

‘He’s got nothing better to do,’ Cassian chuckles.

Mando snorts, and Cassian guesses he’s smiling.

’You were about to say something too,’ Mando reminds him.

‘Right,’ Cassian recalls. ‘I’ve got another scar. If you wanted…’

He trails off, realising _see it_ isn’t right. He’s not going to say _feel it_ out loud.

‘I don’t exactly have plans,’ Mando says drily.

‘Okay, well, it’s…’ Cassian prods his jaw, frowning. ‘Uh.’

Mando laughs. ‘Did you lose it?’

‘I don’t usually have a beard,’ Cassian groans. ‘Not this much.’

He fumbles, and that itches, and scratching pulls on the taut line of flesh. ‘There.’

‘Your face?’ Mando checks before reaching.

‘Neck,’ Cassian advises him. ‘It’s small...’

Mando takes a moment to find it, following the line Cassian’s finger draws along the straight, thin slice.

‘I can’t see it, usually,’ Cassian explains. ‘Too close to my jaw.’

Mando rests a thumb at one end of the scar, forefinger at the other. ‘Knife?’

Cassian nods shortly, his jaw bumping Mando’s hand. ‘A bounty hunter tried to take me hostage. Didn’t work.’

‘Feels like it worked a bit.’

Cassian closes his eyes as he grins. ‘Just a scratch.’

‘A scratch that left a scar,’ Mando points out.

He strokes along the length of it. Cassian swallows, the movement obvious under Mando’s touch. He remembers to breathe out, slow through his nose. Mando’s fingers press a little, tilting his face up. Cassian’s mouth falls open unbidden. Then Mando’s touch slides to the edge of his jaw, and disappears.

Cassian blinks. His pupils feel so wide he should be able to see in the dark.

‘Got my own knife wound,’ Mando confesses. It feels like a change of subject, even as his clothes rustle in interesting ways. ‘Here.’

He takes Cassian’s wrist, drawing him closer. The strength in his grip is confident, but the way his belly twitches suddenly at Cassian’s touch, it could be a bluff.

A short, raised mark. Cassian’s more interested in the fluff below Mando’s navel, brushing his knuckles through it.

‘You got stabbed?’ he asks, and it comes out quieter than he intended.

‘Throwing knife, actually,’ Mando says. ‘Only the tip got through.’

‘Lover’s tiff?’ Cassian jokes.

‘She wanted it to be,’ Mando admits.

‘Ah,’ Cassian tries to hide his surprise. ‘But Mandalorians don’t…?’

‘Mandalorians do,’ Mando says, amused. ‘Just not with her.’

Cassian explores the pattern of indentations around the scar, so there’s a reason he’s still touching. ‘How did you treat this? Staples?’

‘Soldering iron, initially,’ Mando admits. ‘We were in the field.’

Cassian cringes, touching the scar again. It has the texture of a burn, now he’s aware of it. He circles the marks of each staple: twelve dots, six staples. Mando’s breathing is a shallow rise and fall, slightly uneven. Cassian flattens his palm, fingers spreading. Mando’s hips tilt, barely a degree, and Cassian can feel the muscle in his abdomen tense.

Cassian freezes. A heartbeat later, he and Mando both move at once.

Mando reaches the source of the sound first: by the time Cassian gets to the door, the footsteps outside are already fading.

‘That’s not a patrol,’ Mando murmurs.

‘No,’ Cassian agrees. ‘You hear the shuffling?’

‘Another prisoner?’ Mando guesses.

‘Probably.’

‘Think it matters?’

‘Probably not,’ Cassian sighs.

Like that, the moment is gone, leaving silence in its wake.


	4. The Interrogation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A content reminder: this chapter has beatings, electric shocks, water dunking, and a broken finger.

Cassian doesn’t register the sound of the door opening. He’s still half-asleep, hand raising instinctively to shield his eyes from the light as Stormtroopers rush in.

Mando’s faster than Cassian. He’s using the shadows, coming in low. That’s why the stun blast barely catches him, sending him tumbling across the floor. Cassian doesn’t check where he landed, busy darting between the Stormtroopers. A baton crashes down hard on his shoulder, and an arm locks around his throat.

He’s suddenly glad for the sparring practice with Mando. He jabs his fist into a gap between plates of armour, wriggling so the trooper can’t choke him. But there’s four of them, one blasting Mando with another stunner while the other three wrestle Cassian to the floor. He makes them fight for every second of it, but they force his wrists together and cuff them in front of him.

‘Get him out of here,’ the leader barks. Cassian is dragged to his feet, guards holding each of his elbows.

The corridor is too bright: Cassian’s eyes sting and his head swims. He walks slowly, acting sluggish so they won’t try to disable him further. He lets his hair fall in his eyes as he searches methodically.

A prison ship, as they guessed. The other cells are full. Hallway ends with airlock exits. Extra guards, keycode doors with scomp sockets. He’s marched through a set of them. A right-angle turn. Still no clear direction to the hangar, if he wanted to flee. The bridge might be an option if he can commandeer the ship, or the engine room for sabotage. But prison ships have grid layouts, every block of cells interchangeable. It makes it easy to box in an escapee.

The guards stop at a door. Cassian shuts his eyes, a brief reprieve from the blinding white of the corridors. The Stormtrooper not holding onto him buzzes the comms.

‘Got the prisoner for interrogation.’

Cassian’s breath hitches. He’d had an inkling: it was this or a transfer. His posture changes, gradually, so that when they lead him in he’s hunched over and shuffling. He flinches when they link his cuffs to a tether from the ceiling, cranking it so he has to stand with his arms above his head. His feet scrabble before he finds his balance.

Let them think he’s afraid.

The door hisses shut. Cassian keeps his head bowed, peering through his hair. Two Stormtroopers at the door. An officer to his left. He steps forward and Cassian gets a glimpse of the uniform’s insignia. A Security Inspector, and a junior one at that. Nobody from Imperial Intelligence knows Cassian’s here yet, or they’d have professionals.

The officer grabs him by the hair and pulls his head back. Cassian’s eyes dart around the room: no other exits. He glances at the officer’s face and shrinks away.

‘What do you want?’ he mutters.

A fist hits him in the stomach. He coughs, doubling over. It’s no harder than Mando’s been hitting him. Only a warning.

‘We ask the questions,’ the officer snaps.

Cassian nods, his eyes scrunched shut.

He’s trained for this. He’s trained for this with an interrogation droid, which these guys don’t have.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Cassian Jardal,’ he answers. The officer forces his chin up, peering at him. Cassian gives him a wary look, the kind a freelance mercenary who’s been locked in the dark for two weeks would have.

‘What were you doing on Glee Anselm?’

‘My job,’ Cassian retorts. He’s slapped for his trouble, a sharp backhand that makes his ears ring. He stretches his jaw until it clicks.

It’s a dangerous game: he gives them too much, they know he’s lying. Too little, they start doing permanent damage.

The officer gestures to one of the Stormtroopers, who starts moving around behind Cassian. He cranes his neck to see what’s going on, and the officer punches him in the side.

Cassian curses: this time wasn’t a warning. He keeps his breathing controlled as the officer stands toe to toe with him. The temptation to headbutt him itches under Cassian’s skin.

‘And what is your job, _Cassian Jardal?’_ the officer drawls.

‘I’m a mercenary,’ Cassian says.

The officer nods, as if they’re making small talk at a cocktail party. His hands trail slowly toward his belt, and he unclips his baton.

‘Who hired you?’

‘Guy in a cantina.’

The baton jabs him in the solar plexus, and the _oof_ that bursts out of Cassian isn’t faked. His feet go from under him, the cuffs tugging sharply on his wrists.

‘Try again.’

‘Guy in a cantina,’ Cassian repeats, teeth gritted. The baton raises. ‘Human, blue eyes, Corellian accent. Had a mask on the lower half of his face.’

It’s a bland description of a fictional character. Cassian rotates his fist in the cuff, to stop it from scraping his wrist where he’d been trying to break into the vent.

‘What did he pay you with?’ the officer asks.

‘Corellian wine corks,’ Cassian sneers.

The officer lashes out, his baton curling to strike Cassian in the kidneys. Cassian yelps, barely recovering from the first before the officer whips around to hit the other side.

Cassian’s stomach heaves from the wave of pain. He has to swallow down bile before he can answer.

‘Imperial credits,’ he mumbles.’ Two-fifty up front, two-fifty on delivery.’

‘Was that so difficult?’

Cassian rolls his eyes. The baton slams into his jaw, snapping his head to one side. Pain blooms instantly, and he already knows the shade of bruise it will leave. He probes his tongue at the spot and ignores the bright ache, checking his teeth haven’t been knocked loose. Blood collects in his mouth: he spits it out, a stream of pink that lands between the officer’s feet.

The officer taps the baton against Cassian’s cheek, right where it was struck. Cassian meets his eyes. There’s hunger in them, whether at the chance to torture a prisoner or the ambition to climb beyond a junior security position. Likely both.

The officer punches him again: a short and sudden blow to Cassian’s abdomen. Cassian grunts, but he doesn’t look away.

‘What was the delivery?’

‘Package the size of a mouse droid,’ Cassian recites. ‘Left at a dead drop in the fish market.’

The best lies have a grain of truth. Hiring a mercenary to pick up a dead drop wasn’t unusual for a Rebel strategy. He’d been captured at the fish market.

‘That’s your story? Five hundred credits for a package collection?’

‘That’s the truth.’

The officer moves fast, boot landing hard on Cassian’s instep. He yelps in surprise, knees buckling. The tether above his head unwinds, sending Cassian crashing to the floor. He curls instinctively, nearly dodging the officer’s kick. It hits his shin instead of his torso.

Blunt force. This is the kind of interrogation they can plausibly deny later, if they need to. So they think Cassian might be valuable enough to return in one piece: they aren’t buying the mercenary story.

He adds this up in the few seconds it takes for the Stormtrooper to move around, jerking the tether until Cassian is kneeling. The officer grabs a fistful of Cassian’s hair, dragging him toward a bucket set firmly on the floor.

‘Why don’t you tell me a different story?’ he lilts, and shoves Cassian’s head in the water.

Cassian doesn’t gasp, doesn’t exhale. He tries to shake the hand out of his hair, but the baton slams across his shoulders. That forces the air out of him, a flurry of bubbles in his face.

He fights back the instinct to inhale, even as his heart pounds against his ribs. This isn’t long. He’s lasted longer than this.

With a yank, the officer pulls his face free of the water. Cassian splutters, sucking in air.

‘What were you doing on Glee Anselm?’

‘I was—‘

The officer shoves his head under again. Cassian didn’t get enough air, caught mid-sentence. He digs his fingers into his palms, counting the seconds. The Stormtrooper pins his shoulders, keeping him from struggling.

One, two. He’s sure some hair’s been ripped from his scalp. Three, four. The water is chilly, a stark contrast to the burning heat in his jaw. Five, six. The space behind his eyelids somehow gets darker, and for a strange moment it reminds him of being back in the cell. Seven, eight. Flex his toes, make sure the instep didn’t break any of the bones in his feet. Nine, ten. There are drips from the last plunge working their way into his shirt, mingling with the damp stains of sweat. Eleven, twelve. A thudding pain in his kidneys. Thirteen, fourteen. Or was it sixteen? Make it sixteen now. His throat tightens. Repeat the story. Mercenary, hired by a Corellian, dead drop at the market. Seventeen, eighteen. Will Mando get the same treatment? What can Cassian prepare him for? Nineteen, twenty. That’s assuming they don’t drown him here and now.

They haul him out of the water and he splutters, heaving in lungfuls of air. His throat is raw, breaths loud and scraping.

‘Damn it, I told you!’ he snarls. ‘A job picking up a package!’

‘How long were you in that cell?’ the officer muses. ‘Fifteen days? Perhaps you need your memory jogged.’

A low humming starts up, and Cassian flinches. The tone changes to a distinctive crackle the moment before a harsh jolt hits his neck.

The officer waves the sparking tip of the baton in front of Cassian’s face, in case he had any doubt it had a shock attachment. Cassian watches it through the dripping curtain of his hair. The point on his neck throbs, blunt jabs of pain pulsating out from it.

He’s never dealt well with shocks. His fingers are getting jittery: he squeezes them between his knees.

‘Describe this package.’

‘A box, they said,’ Cassian is panting. This time he’s not faking the gasps. ‘Not heavy, but too big to carry in a pack. Datatapes, it was probably datatapes.’

‘Where was your rendezvous?’

‘Same cantina,’ Cassian licks away the blood welling between his gum and his lip. ‘That night. Fift… fifteen days ago.’

A qualified interrogator wouldn’t give away information like that. Fifteen days was close to what he’d guessed: not so long that the Rebellion will have cut him loose.

Kay will find him. He clenches his jaw through another aftershock. Kay’s going to find him.

‘I’m going to ask you another question,’ the crackling of the baton is so close to his ear, his hair might get singed. ‘And we’ll give you some time to think about the answer.’

Cassian’s lip curls. The baton sparks in his peripheral vision and he winces at the heat of it so near his eyeball.

‘Who is the Fulcrum?’

Then the officer grabs his head and shoves it back in the bucket.

It’s harder, this time, keeping count. He tells himself what he knows. They don’t know who’s using the Fulcrum codename. They don’t know for sure that Cassian’s part of the Rebellion. They haven’t done any damage a bit of bacta won’t fix, which means they think he could be a valuable hostage. If they didn’t, he’d be dead. Kay will come and get him soon.

The shocker bites into his lower back, and he gasps in surprise. Water rushes into his mouth. He tastes his own blood in it. He thrashes, his chest hammering, and in that moment none of his training matters because he’s going to drown.

A boot slams into his side, sending him and the bucket tumbling sideways. Cassian curls up on the floor, coughing and gasping. Water gushes out of his nose, stinging his sinuses. Bile sticks in his throat. His legs are twitching from the shock. There’s an itch under his skin where bruises are starting to form. He presses his face to the cold floor, getting his breathing under control.

‘The Fulcrum, please.’

Cassian tries to talk, and he gags. His stomach is a roiling mess: he’s lost count of how many times they’ve struck him. He draws in a rattling breath, blinking water out of his eyes. The room is so bright. It was easier when everything was dark.

‘I don’t… _fool-crumb?’_ he mispronounces it on purpose.

The officer crouches in front of him. His hand curls around Cassian’s. It’s almost gentle, and Cassian frowns, confused, still trying to centre himself even as unconsciousness tugs at the corners of his mind.

‘Fulcrum, Cassian. Do you need me to spell it out for you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re—‘

The officer breaks his finger.

Cassian yells, fighting off the sudden vertigo. He’s losing focus, squinting at the Stormtrooper’s boots, picking out the details. It’s only the pinkie, he tells himself, the left hand, nothing important. He can patch it up once Kay’s got him back on the ship, because Kay always keeps extra bacta because Cassian always ends up needing it. A circular argument they like to have. They’ll have it again.

The pain punches a hole through his thoughts, red and throbbing and loud. The rustle of the officer’s uniform as he stands up is sharp and grating. Cassian listens to it, teeth aching where he’s grinding them together, clinging to consciousness. He knows from past interrogations, worse ones: his body will decide to faint without consulting him. But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep fighting.

‘What… what do you mean?’ he croaks, hunching around his hand, cradling it. ‘Fulcrum… like a lever?’

The officer turns to the Stormtroopers. They’re deciding something. He can’t tell what it is, so he concentrates on the tingling pinpricks of his nerves, overwhelmed.

‘Your client,’ the officer says. ‘Who did he work for?’

‘Black Sun,’ Cassian answers. ‘I do jobs for them, okay?’

The officer hesitates. After so long in the dark, Cassian can tell, just from the way the floor creaks.

‘Please… I’m a contractor,’ Cassian begs, and it’s not entirely an act. ‘I don’t know if this client was _Fulcrum,_ but he reached me through Black Sun channels. That’s all I know.’

‘Shut up.’

But the mercenary would be desperate, so Cassian is desperate. ‘The channels, I could…’

‘Silence,’ the baton is shoved into his chest, a prolonged charge that makes Cassian convulse, whimpering.

It works. They’ve pushed him to the edge, and he’s thrown down his ace. The Empire has a complicated treaty with Black Sun. If they’ve interfered with affairs on Glee Anselm, it could be a political nightmare: the kind that gets junior officers fired, or simply executed.

He could sleep. He could fold himself inward until he disappears, so the aching prickling throbbing seething stinging pain washes over him. But there’s something that burns hotter than all of it, and he clutches it as tight as he can. It’s visceral, and it’s always hurt, but it’s familiar. He hates them. Every Stormtrooper and junior security officer and every nut and bolt in the Imperial machine, and each strike they land makes it sharper. He holds onto that feeling, even as tears stream down his face, strange and warm after the cold water. It’s _his,_ kept tightly under his skin. The secret is still his own, still intact. The rest is just a mask.

He wonders if he’d make a good Mandalorian.

He’s solid when the Stormtroopers pick him up, limbs stiff and joints pinched tight. They get him into a semblance of standing, his head lolling into his chest, feet perfunctorily on the floor. He’ll make them drag him, just so they can enjoy the cramp from taking his weight.

The trip back to his cell is a series of short bursts, interrupted by blackness. He catches a string of numbers on a door, and memorises it. Occupied. The cells are occupied. Mando wasn’t planted as a mole: the prison is full.

He snivels, and a glob of blood falls on the floor. Someone will have to clean it up.

They stop at a door, uncuffing him. Cassian growls, a feral noise that’s all he can muster. It’s meant to be a warning for Mando, to be ready. Get out, surprise them, slip by. Take advantage of the seconds it costs for them to drop Cassian and grab their blasters.

The door opens, and he sees nothing. The troopers toss him inside and he hits the floor, landing badly on his arm. His finger sends a jangling chorus of pain to remind him it’s broken. He rolls onto his back, gasping like a fish, and the door slams shut.

‘Mando,’ he croaks. He can’t hear any response over his own breathing. He writhes, using his elbow to drag himself to the middle of the room. He thumps head-first into leather, metal, a body. His good hand—he has a good hand, now—fumbles toward it. There, the space between belt and tunic. Warmth. A shallow rise, a staggered fall. Alive. Still stunned.

That will have to do, Cassian decides, and passes out.


	5. The Recovery

‘Cassian.’

No. Not yet. A little longer.

‘Cassian!’

He frowns, trying to turn away from the noise. Something bumps against his mouth: warm, smooth, skin. A hand. He flinches away, but the hand is there, cupping his cheek, supporting his neck.

‘Hey,’ a gravelly voice. ‘It’s me.’

His friend. Cassian groans, and the pain comes rushing back. Nausea surges through him and he coughs, wracked with shudders.

‘Okay, okay…’ Mando keeps holding his face, other hand checking over his arms, torso, legs.

‘Mando,’ Cassian croaks, reaching out and batting against Mando’s crouched knee. ‘They stunned you.’

‘Yeah, they did,’ Mando agrees. His fingers brush over the burn on Cassian’s back left by the shock baton, and Cassian hisses sharply. ‘What did they do to you?’

‘Interrogation,’ Cassian says. ’Nothing serious.’

‘Feels serious,’ Mando retorts. ‘Remember I know how much of a beating you can take.’

Cassian laughs, and the muscles in his stomach clench. ‘Blunt force. Shock baton. Asphyxiation.’

Efficient, removed. Like he’d do in a debrief.

Cassian’s face screws up as he tries to wade through the memory of it. ‘Oh. Broken finger.’

 _‘Ner burc’ya, chakaar ashnar kadala gar,’_ Mando mutters. Cassian remembers the gist of _friend_ and _wounded,_ but mostly he grasps the bitter tone.

Mando’s hands are cautious, now, finding Cassian’s, then working their way along to the pinky. He hisses when he finds the unnatural bend in it. Cassian’s nerves prickle from the swelling.

‘It’s fine,’ Cassian insists. ‘I’ve got nine more.’

‘You’ll have ten that work if you give me a second,’ Mando says. ‘Any other breaks? Did they hit your head?’

‘No,’ Cassian says. Silence. ‘Really.’

Mando’s touch disappears, then rustling. Cassian concentrates on the familiar sound of Mando moving around the room, getting water, shedding layers of armour.

‘Here.’

Mando gently lifts Cassian’s head, tucking the pillow under it. Cassian sighs.

‘You thirsty?’

Cassian reaches out, taking the offered cup. It’s only half full, but he still sloshes some over his shaking fingers as he brings it to his lips.

The first mouthful, he swills and spits. The stale taste of blood washes away with it, and a quick probe with his tongue confirms the wound is beginning to heal. He takes small sips, breathing between them, even as each swallow makes him crave more.

He sets the cup down, the rim rattling on the floor. Mando takes it, refilling it. There’s a yelp of ripping fabric, echoing off the walls.

‘Any open wounds, abrasions?’ Mando asks.

Cassian grunts.

‘I know,’ Mando says sympathetically. ‘But it’s a lot slower if I try to find them myself.’

Cassian heaves a sigh, trying to recall. ‘My neck. Chest, probably. Somewhere… on my back?’

‘Okay,’ Mando gives his right hand a quick squeeze. ‘I’m gonna roll your shirt up, alright?’

‘Mm-hmm,’ Cassian wriggles, trying to make it easier. Mando lifts the fabric away, until it’s bunched up under Cassian’s armpits.

‘Cold?’ he asks, and Cassian realises he’s shivering.

‘Yeah,’ Cassian twists, so Mando can examine his back. ‘A little.’

‘I’ll wrap you up when this is done,’ Mando promises.

His fingers skim methodically over Cassian’s skin, starting at the shoulders and working down. Cassian’s breath hitches when Mando finds the wound left by the shock prod, down near his hips. It hadn’t felt that low when he was submerged. He hisses through his teeth as Mando rinses it, wiping the water away with cloth.

‘What is that?’

‘Some of my shirt,’ Mando explains. ‘Cleanest thing we have.’

‘Stings,’ Cassian comments, but he doesn’t struggle when Mando dabs the wound clean.

‘I know.’

The chill is a relief on scorched skin. Mando’s fingers return, this time working over Cassian’s sides, turning him to check his belly and ribcage. It’s so methodical it shouldn’t be interesting, but Cassian’s delirious. So maybe he hasn’t been touched this thoroughly, this thoughtfully, in a while.

Mando finds the seared patch on Cassian’s chest, makes a sympathetic _ugh,_ and cleans it up. He lays his palm over Cassian’s pectoral when he’s done. Cassian blinks, and then figures it must be to check his heartbeat. It’s probably erratic. He takes a deep breath, willing it to even out.

‘Your neck, too?’ Mando confirms.

Cassian nods, then remembers he has to talk. ‘Yeah.’

The cool cloth glides over his throat, working around to his spine until Mando finds the last burn. Cassian’s not sure that one broke the skin, but it sears hot and tender. Mando rinses the cloth and returns with it freshly dampened, soothing away the worst of the sting. Cassian closes his eyes, even if it makes no difference.

‘Shame you don’t have a soldering iron.’

Mando chuckles. The cloth drips as he wrings it out. ‘Want your shirt back down?’

Cassian makes an affirmative noise. He tugs on the hem of the shirt, until Mando swats him softly out of the way and does it properly. Cassian lifts himself off the floor, groaning as his muscles seize up.

‘I got it,’ Mando assures him, nudging the shirt back into his waistband. ‘Have another drink.’

The cup is proffered, and Cassian takes it. Mando is fiddling with something: buckles jingle and thread snaps.

‘Give me your hand,’ Mando says, then amends: ‘Your _broken_ hand.’

Cassian’s face heats up, and he lays the left hand gingerly in Mando’s. Mando feels his way delicately around the pinkie, sighing in frustration. He rests Cassian’s hand, palm-up, on his thigh, fiddling with whatever he’s gathered to treat it with.

‘We gotta set it straight,’ Mando says. ‘Get it lined up with the next finger.’

‘Yeah,’ Cassian finds the swollen joint, the odd angle. He coaxes it into alignment, snarling through the jolt of pain that rises.

‘Got it,’ he says through gritted teeth.

Mando has a leather strap, something short that probably attached one piece of equipment to another. He winds it firm, but not tight, around Cassian’s two fingers. The pinkie throbs dully: dull is good. Fabric tickles Cassian’s skin: a strip of something torn up to tie the leather down.

‘That feel right?’ Mando asks.

Cassian inspects Mando’s handiwork, flexing his hand as much as he can. ‘Yeah.’

Mando gets up again, bustling around with something near the bunk.

‘What’re you…?’

‘Here,’ there’s a _whumph_ of air, and a pile of bedding lands in front of Cassian. ‘Better if we don’t move you too much. The bunk’s no softer than the floor anyway.’

He lays the bedding out on the floor. Cassian wriggles to one side, letting him work. Mando makes a dissatisfied grunt, and Cassian takes that to mean he’s done. He climbs into the pile of blankets.

‘These aren’t just mine,’ he notices.

‘Nope,’ Mando agrees. The air whooshes, and something soft settles over Cassian. He pinches the cloth between forefinger and thumb: it’s Mando’s cape.

‘You’re good at this,’ Cassian says.

‘You should see me with a soldering iron,’ Mando drawls.

Cassian laughs, and his abdomen clenches. ‘It’s still more than what we’ve got here.’

‘Yeah,’ Mando admits. ‘Can’t really help with the bruising.’

‘It’ll fade,’ Cassian sighs. ‘Nothing to do except wait.’

‘You should rest.’

‘What about you?’

Cassian’s been hit by stun blasts before. He remembers the thin, overtired feeling that starts to hit you when your body realises it wasn’t real sleep.

‘I’ll be fine.’

’Would you…’ Cassian swallows, pulling the cape tighter around himself. ‘Stay here?’

‘Not going anywhere.’

‘I mean on the floor.’

A soft snort. Cassian thinks he could beg off being delirious from pain, if he’s made things weird.

The blankets shift as Mando settles into them. ‘I meant the floor too.’

‘Okay,’ Cassian mumbles. He doesn’t particularly want to sleep, but exhaustion is seeping into his bones. Mando is a comforting weight beside him. Cassian wriggles a bit closer. Even in armour, the ambient warmth of another body makes the aching not so bad. He fumbles around, making sure Mando has blankets too. Mando grabs his hand and settles it between them.

‘Rest.’

‘Mm-hmm,’ Cassian nods, and Mando can probably feel the pillow moving. He closes his eyes, counting his breaths, reminding his body it doesn’t need the tension.

‘Hey,’ he murmurs.

‘Hmm?’ Mando asks. Funny, Cassian thinks, how he sleeps in the helmet.

‘What were you doing? Before I woke up?’ Cassian asks.

‘Not much,’ Mando shuffles until he’s comfortable. ‘I was stunned. Woke up with you next to me.’

‘No, I mean,’ Cassian nestles further into the blankets. ‘With your hand in my face.’

‘Right,’ Mando says. ‘Checking you were breathing.’

‘Oh,’ Cassian rubs his face into the pillow. His hand is still caught safely inside Mando’s. ‘Well, thanks.’

*

Fingers brush hair out of his face. A hand jiggles his shoulder. Cassian grumbles, burrowing deeper in the blankets.

‘Hey,’ Mando speaks softly. ‘It’s time to eat.’

Cassian sighs, but then his stomach growls. ‘Alright.’

As he clambers up, his muscles don’t complain as much. He prods the bruise on his jaw and winces, but the ache fades quickly.

Mando checks he’s sitting up, then puts a tray of rations in his lap.

‘How long was I out?’ Cassian asks.

‘About half a day,’ Mando guesses. ‘This is the first food we’ve had since before they took you.’

‘The interrogator said it was fifteen days,’ Cassian recalls. ‘So fifteen and a half by now.’

‘Fits my count,’ Mando agrees. ‘Sound right to you?’

‘Yeah,’ Cassian says. He folds the flatbread into a scoop shape and mops up some of the stew. It’s cold, like always, but then the flavour hits. ‘What did you do to this?’

‘Doubled the pepper,’ Mando explains. ‘I should’ve warned you.’

‘It’s _good,’_ Cassian frowns. ‘Does that mean there’s none in yours?’

‘Figured you needed it,’ Mando says.

Cassian eats, and reports on everything he can recall from outside the cell. Mando picks apart every detail of Cassian’s journey between their cell and the interrogation chamber, but nothing lends itself to an escape plan.

‘Think you’re up for a shower?’ Mando asks when Cassian’s finished eating.

‘Can you smell me through the helmet?’ Cassian scowls.

‘Not quite,’ Mando’s voice is warm. ‘Figured you’d want to.’

Cassian lifts his shirt to his nose, and recoils at the stench of stale fear-sweat. ‘Yeah, I need it.’

‘If you give me your clothes,’ Mando says. ‘I can wash them.’

‘Oh, I can—‘

’—you can take it easy, and give me something to do,’ Mando argues.

Cassian rolls his eyes. ‘Fine.’

‘Splint off first,’ Mando says. ‘We’ll re-dress it after.’

Cassian holds out his hand, and Mando helps him untie the binding. There’s a sour panging once the finger is free, and Cassian checks it over. The swelling has gone down, at least.

Holding his left hand as loosely as he can, he tries wrestling his shirt off. His muscles complain, but Mando helps him out of the sleeves. Once Cassian’s free, Mando offers an arm. Cassian uses it to pull himself upright.

‘Balance on my shoulder,’ Mando says, dropping to one knee. Cassian gets his boots off with help, then socks, belt, pants. He’s naked, with Mando kneeling in front of him. But Mando’s holding his dirty socks, and Cassian smells like a dead womp rat. Cassian gives his shoulder a pat of thanks, and makes his way to the shower.

The sonic makes his skin prickle, but it leaches away the soreness. It’s not exactly a bacta tank, but Cassian’s glad to get the sickness off his skin. He runs his fingers through his hair, getting it thoroughly clean, and takes the time to check himself over. No undiscovered injuries, at least. Over the thrumming of the shower he can hear the faucet still flowing, so Mando isn’t done. Cassian relaxes, letting the vibration and the residual heat of the engines soothe the lingering aches.

‘Done,’ Mando announces, and Cassian shuts off the shower. Mando is beside him a moment later, saying: ‘Here.’

Cassian brushes up against fabric. It takes him a moment to realise what it is, as Mando drapes it around him. ‘This is your cape.’

‘It’ll keep you warm,’ Mando says. ‘Better than just the blankets.’

Cassian might still be a bit stunned, as he draws the cape around himself and tries to figure out if it’s important. The cape holds a lingering heat from Mando’s body. He shuffles back to the nest of bedding in the middle of the floor, and sitting cross-legged in it is a lot easier than getting up was.

‘Clothes are hanging,’ Mando reports, and settles down in front of Cassian. Cassian silently puts his left hand in Mando’s lap. Mando winds the leather slowly around Cassian’s fingers. When he reaches the tips, his fingertips press into Cassian’s.

‘How’s the tension?’

Cassian has to swallow before he can speak. ‘That’s good.’

‘Okay,’ Mando says. ‘Hold this for me.’

He guides Cassian’s right hand to the edge of the leather. Cassian keeps it in place while Mando weaves the string of fabric into a binding and ties it securely.

Cassian doesn’t take his hand out of Mando’s lap. Mando’s fingers curl loosely, resting in Cassian’s palm.

Six seconds pass. Cassian counts them.

Mando clears his throat. ‘How’s the bruising?’

‘Mm,’ Cassian shifts to one side, then the other, but his hands don’t leave Mando’s. ‘Not so bad.’

‘That’s, uh…’ Mando’s fingertip follows the lines on Cassian’s palm. ‘That’s good.’

‘Yeah, it’s mostly…’ Cassian interlaces the fingers of his right hand with Mando’s, using it to nudge aside the cape and steer Mando to his abdomen. ‘Here.’

He keeps still as Mando’s hand settles there, breathing steady. Even as his heart kicks up and he wants to shiver at the touch, even as Mando’s fingers splay, from Cassian’s hip to his ribs. Then Mando’s other hand is sliding in, mirroring the position.

‘And here?’ Mando asks. It could be the helmet making his breath rasp. It could be.

‘Yeah, there too,’ Cassian murmurs. Mando’s touch slides around his waist, and Cassian can’t hold back a gasp.

His left hand is still in Mando’s lap. He turns it over, slowly, carefully, until it’s resting alongside the armour on Mando’s thigh. He feels the muscle tense, and Mando’s fingers dig in slightly.

Mando swallows. Cassian hears it.

‘Can I—?’

‘Yes,’ Cassian answers.

He’s not sure what the question is, until Mando’s hands begin exploring him properly. One finds Cassian’s chest, thumb brushing over a nipple, palm seeking Cassian’s heartbeat. The other weaves toward Cassian’s shoulder. He maps out the lines and hollows of Cassian’s collarbones. Then he comes to the back of Cassian’s neck, avoiding the burn and kneading forefinger and thumb into the base of Cassian’s skull.

A quiet moan escapes Cassian, and he leans closer. He reaches for Mando, finding the ragged edge of his shirt. For a moment he’s entranced, brushing through the unraveling weave. He pulls a thread, and keeps pulling. His fingers slip under the shirt to find the scar Mando showed him, and this time there’s nothing to interrupt him feeling his way to Mando’s hips, no hesitance in the way they tilt up. This close, even through the helmet, Cassian can hear Mando’s stuttered breathing. He hooks two fingers under the hem of Mando’s pants.

‘Can I—?’ he echoes Mando’s request.

‘Yeah,’ Mando breathes. ‘Let me.’

He doesn’t let go of Cassian immediately: his thumb finds Cassian’s lip, tugging on the swell of it. The forefinger of his other hand draws a line from Cassian’s sternum to his navel, then Mando pulls the cape snugly around Cassian. He stands, stepping back. Cassian knows the music, now, of each piece of armour being removed. It keeps him patient, even as his lip tingles from the momentary touch. He listens to the buckles and buttons being undone, the layers being shucked and carefully laid within reach, and the distinctive _tink_ that only the helmet makes.

The cape shifts as the air is displaced: Mando kneels in front of him again. Cassian’s nostrils flare at how human he smells, without the leather and linen. He opens up the cape and reaches out, drawing Mando into the warmth of it, and Mando shivers a little as he shuffles closer. Cassian rubs goosebumps from his arms, and the small laugh it elicits sounds different without the helmet. Under Cassian’s hands is sinew and muscle. Mando is narrower beneath the layers, more lithe than Cassian had guessed. Cassian finds broad shoulders giving way to a slender waist. He weaves his arms around Mando, drawing him closer.

Their foreheads bump together, and Mando’s breath fans across Cassian’s cheek. Cassian’s heart flutters in his chest, his lips parting even as he knows—seems to know—that Mando will turn to one side. Mando doesn’t pull away, though, his beard tickling Cassian’s cheek and his nose nudging Cassian’s ear. Lips brush over his jaw and Cassian shudders, fingers digging into Mando’s hips. Mando inhales just below Cassian’s earlobe, a sharp and needy sound, and Cassian is crawling clumsily into Mando’s lap before considering the consequences. His abdomen seizes, and Mando notices the flinch: Cassian feels his mouth curve into a smile.

‘Come here,’ Mando sighs fondly, taking hold of Cassian and lowering him down to lie on his side. Mando lays facing him, piling the cape and blankets on top of them. His foot hooks around Cassian’s ankle, and Cassian whines at Mando’s chilly toes.

‘Where’s your hand…’ Mando mutters, finding the splinted finger and moving it to rest safely on top of the blankets. Cassian grumbles his frustration. Then Mando’s mouth is on his throat again, inhaling, lower lip dragging along the straining tendon. Cassian groans, toes curling as Mando’s teeth graze his pulse, tongue flicking, and Cassian’s fumbling right hand drags down Mando’s chest. Mando hisses, his teeth sinking in, making Cassian writhe. His nails dig into Mando’s chest. Mando twitches. Cassian strokes where he scraped, soothing the skin.

This is more than he’d imagined: it’s so much, it’s _everything._

Cassian tries again, gentler, thoroughly exploring Mando’s torso. Mando reacts to the slightest touch, stirring and sighing. His face is buried in the crook of Cassian’s neck, so Cassian feels his eyelashes flutter, his breath catching. Cassian turns his head to the side, nuzzling Mando’s hair. It’s soft, tufty and outgrown.

Mando’s hand slips down Cassian’s side, taking hold of his hip. Cassian arches into the grip. Mando’s thigh shifts, pressing solidly against Cassian’s groin. His cock stirs in response, and Mando hums curiously into the tender skin of Cassian’s collarbone.

‘Please,’ Cassian murmurs, and he’s all but mounting Mando’s leg, struggling to fit his hand between their bodies. Mando cants his thigh forward, and the pressure has Cassian’s cock filling, heat rushing through him. He rakes his fingers through the hair around Mando’s navel, and Mando quivers in response. Cassian finds the scar, draws a boundary around it: a promise he remembers it’s there, and he won’t touch it.

He slows, the lower he gets, his fingertips following the line of Mando’s hipbone and the crease of his thigh. Mando is still grinding into him, his rhythm stumbling as Cassian’s hand slinks closer.

‘You want me to?’ Cassian whispers, and Mando nods. He arches his head to thump Cassian’s jaw with his nose, hips tilting until his cock is pressed into Cassian’s hand.

Cassian draws a sharp breath, curling his hand around it. It’s heavy, thick, and hot to the touch. When he strokes it, Mando moans loudly into Cassian’s neck.

‘Okay?’ Cassian smiles.

 _‘Yeah,’_ Mando huffs. ‘Just… take it slow?’

‘Mm-hmm,’ Cassian purrs. He brushes his thumb through the drop of wetness at the tip, slicking it down the shaft. He deliberately drags it out, making his way gradually back up, keeping a loose hold. The tension builds all through Mando’s body, and Cassian has to bite back a grin when Mando’s thigh shoves firmly against Cassian’s own cock. Cassian whimpers at the sudden pressure.

‘Too much?’ Mando freezes.

‘Not enough,’ Cassian retorts. Mando snorts, a rush of air against Cassian’s face.

Mando’s hand snakes between them, grasping Cassian’s cock. Cassian yelps in surprise as Mando holds him tight—not so tight to hurt, but strong, uncompromising. Then he nudges Cassian’s hand out of the way, aligning their hips so he can grip both of them at once. Cassian thrusts unthinking into Mando’s hand, cock sliding along the rigid heat of Mando’s. There’s something assured, almost possessive, about the way he touches Cassian, finger and thumb circling to explore the girth, fingertip mapping the thick vein—Cassian shudders—and reaching the head. Mando doesn’t hesitate in teasing the foreskin, swiping through the beading fluid at the slit and making Cassian whine from overstimulation. He strokes and circles there, and Cassian bites down hard on his own lip to keep from crying out, his thighs aching from keeping still. He knows Mando is coaxing more slick from him, and the taste of blood in his mouth is all that keeps him from coming too soon. Sweat prickles between his shoulder blades and he flexes his toes, anything to focus on except the unyielding attention Mando is giving the head of his cock. When Mando finally releases it, his hand is wet, closing tight around both their shafts. He thrusts, and it feels like a prompt for Cassian to do the same. All Cassian does is shudder, his heel scrabbling on Mando’s calf. Mando strokes them, achingly slow, and Cassian is suddenly aware of how the long, twisting motion of it is intended for the greater length of Mando’s cock. Somehow, that makes it better anyway.

‘You want more?’ Mando offers.

‘Yes,’ Cassian pleads, hips stuttering. Mando strokes them again, a searing pull and a tantalising push. Their bodies have shifted, in all of this, and Cassian realises he’s almost on his back, Mando’s weight bearing down on him. His hand scrabbles at Mando’s thigh, fingers pressing in hard enough to bruise, and Mando growls.

‘What…’ Cassian trails off in a gasp, and Mando’s head crooks curiously next to Cassian’s. ‘What happened to _take it slow?’_

‘That what you want?’ Mando is grinning, Cassian can tell.

‘No,’ Cassian confesses. Mando’s grip gets firmer, and his teeth sink into Cassian’s collarbone. Cassian moans, his hips rocking desperately. He feels Mando’s cock throb against his own, and maybe he imagines it’s thickening as Mando’s hand speeds up. Cassian’s left hand clutches uselessly at the blanket, and—damn the consequences—he grabs a fistful of Mando’s hair. Mando gasps and Cassian tugs, strokes, combing along Mando’s scalp. There’s a pang in the broken finger but it’s on the edge of his senses, arousal building too strong for anything else to break through. Cassian cradles Mando’s skull and a whimper escapes from Mando. His face is drawn into a frown, pulling away from Cassian’s shoulder to press their foreheads together. Cassian can taste his breath, damp air on the tip of his tongue as it darts out. He wants to grab Mando’s hair and pull, draw him in, to cup his jaw and bring their mouths together. But he’s so close, and his hips shiver as he cries out and his cock spills over in Mando’s fist. Mando doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hesitate, and the remains of Cassian’s pleasure rips through him unrelenting, lighting up every nerve. Cassian feels the groan that catches at the back of Mando’s throat, the long blunt ridge of Mando’s nose pressed next to Cassian’s, even a brush of Mando’s lips when they fall open as Mando stills. He comes against Cassian’s belly, barely breathing when the aftershocks jolt through him. Cassian clings to him, panting, overwhelmed by the feeling of skin on skin.

Their faces are so close. Mando swallows. Cassian licks his lips. There’s the soft, faltering movement of Mando nuzzling his cheek.

And then—

Mando draws a long and heavy sigh.

Mando’s arm emerges from the blankets and Cassian gasps at the rush of cold, burying himself deeper in Mando’s body heat. He feels the bounce of Mando laughing, and then the arm returns. Mando has balled up some article of clothing—the torn shirt, possibly—and uses it to wipe them both clean before tossing it away. Cassian is boneless, refusing to take his left hand safely out of the way. Mando’s arm weaves under Cassian’s head, offering a better pillow than Cassian usually gets. Cassian inhales, lungs filling with sweat and sex. He tilts his head and presses his lips to the inside of Mando’s upper arm. The skin is so fragile, the muscle tensing and releasing at Cassian’s gesture. Mando wraps the other arm around Cassian, and his mouth brushes Cassian’s temple. Then he settles, and Cassian curls up in the embrace. He falls asleep before anything starts to hurt again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I doubt anyone gets their medical advice from a Star Wars fanfic, absolutely do not buddy-tape a finger break if it’s bent on an angle. Yes, it’s called buddy taping, which is adorable.
> 
> Mando'a translation courtesy of [SparkySheep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkySheep/pseuds/SparkySheep): 'My friend, these criminals have wounded you.'


	6. The Opportunity

They’re woken by rations, and by now the sound is so familiar that Cassian doesn’t startle. He does, however, realise that he’s starving, and Mando grizzles with the same sentiment. Cassian feels him tense for a moment, probably remembering that they’re naked and wrapped up in each other’s arms. But he doesn’t rush away, stretching and scratching and resting his hand on Cassian’s shoulder.

‘Breakfast?’ he asks, and his voice is a little sleep-rough.

Cassian yawns through a smile. ‘Sure.’

Mando dresses while Cassian prepares the rations, and they sit at Mando’s bunk while they eat. Cassian takes the side closer to the door: it’s not as safe as when he was guarding it directly, but it’ll give Mando a second to get the helmet on if someone arrives.

Nobody arrives.

Mando puts his armour back on, and Cassian rushes his own clothes dry by holding them in the sonic for a few minutes. They’re cold, if not damp, and still grimy, but it’s better than wearing a blanket.

As they drift back into the routines and rituals of the cell, Cassian clings to the smallest differences: the way Mando’s touches become slower, more solid. They talk in the same circles they always did, never really about _that,_ but Cassian reasons: what is there to say?

It might not happen again. But neither of them clear up the nest they’ve built in the middle of the room, so Cassian thinks on it. Dwells on it, even.

His bruises hurt worse: everything does on the second day. His hair is long enough to pull behind his ears, so it won’t keep getting stuck in his eyes. Cassian wonders what it looks like. He wonders if he’ll recognise his own face, at the end of this. He wonders if he’d recognise Mando’s hair, from the shape and the texture of it.

Half a day without thinking about the Empire, the Rebellion, the mission. Half a day before Mando’s hand clamps suddenly on his thigh as he hisses: _‘Cassian.’_

Both of them are up, poised at one side of the door. Cassian hears the footsteps: slow, clanking. Familiar. His stomach flips even as he tells himself not to hope.

‘I would be hoping the prisoner is _not_ unconscious, if I were you,’ a voice outside drawls. ‘My mistress will be _most_ displeased.’

A laugh bubbles out of Cassian.

Mando twitches beside him. ‘What?’

‘It’s him,’ Cassian whispers. He touches Mando’s arm, easing him out of the combat stance.

‘Very well,’ Kay’s voice is thick with derision. ‘Why don’t you watch the door for me?’

The door, as promised, opens. Cassian tries not to flinch at the sudden brightness. Most of it is blocked out by the hulking silhouette of Kay. Cassian can’t help the grin that breaks across his face, since Kay’s too broad for the accompanying Stormtroopers to see it.

Cassian makes a show of surging forward, and Kay grabs him by the throat. It’s a well-rehearsed dance. Kay lifts Cassian off his feet, and Cassian gestures quickly at Mando in a silent question.

‘We were not informed of a second prisoner,’ Kay levels the accusation at a Stormtrooper. They start fumbling through excuses, while Cassian makes a frantic _come on_ motion at Mando.

Mando sinks further into the shadows.

Kay’s eyes flicker between them. Cassian snarls in frustration, and mouths _stall_ at Kay.

Kay drops him bodily on the ground and slams the door shut. On the other side of it, Cassian hears Kay berating the Stormtroopers for holding Cassian with another prisoner, to whom this Rebel agent may have leaked vital Imperial intelligence.

‘What are you doing?’ Cassian hisses. ‘This is _it._ That’s Kay!’

‘You said Kay was your friend,’ Mando mutters back. Cassian feels blind all over again, tripping on the blanket as he tries to find where Mando’s withdrawn to.

‘He _is_ my friend,’ Cassian scowls.

‘It’s a droid,’ Mando snaps.

Cassian’s jaw drops. _‘Really?’_

‘If the door opens again…’ Mando starts.

‘We can take you with us,’ Cassian promises. ‘Do you not hear him? He’s running rings around them.’

‘No.’

‘Tell me you’re joking,’ Cassian grabs Mando’s arm. Mando shakes it off.

‘I said no,’ Mando’s voice gets a steely edge to it.

 _‘Mando,’_ Cassian pleads. ‘Don’t be an idiot. You’ve got a better shot of the Empire falling than getting out of here yourself.’

‘Not with the droid.’

Kay’s voice is getting closer on the other side of the door.

‘What if it’s your only chance?’ Cassian asks.

Cassian reaches out once more, and this time, Mando grabs his hand. He squeezes it tightly. Then he lets it go.

‘I’ll find my own way.’

The door opens again. Kay makes a show of slapping the cuffs on Cassian, blaster pointed at Mando. There’s a question in the way Kay holds his shoulders: Cassian shakes his head in a short _no. He’s not coming._

Kay’s eyes flash like he’s rolling them.

‘You may keep the other,’ Kay declares. ‘We will return for him if the Vice-Moff Sordessa deems it necessary.’

He backs out of the cell, dragging Cassian along. Mando disappears into the shadows.

Kay holsters the blaster, glaring at the Stormtroopers. ‘This is clearly a high-priority Rebel agent. He should have been signed over to Intelligence immediately.’

The Stormtroopers struggle to keep up with Kay’s long strides. Cassian keeps his head down, enjoying their useless explanations.

‘I should expect disciplinary action,’ Kay informs them. ‘It will be reported if the prisoner is not in fit medical condition.’

Kay’s noticed the broken finger, then. Cassian has to skip and stagger to keep up. Kay marches him to the hangar, and Cassian blinks: it was only one turn away from their corridor.

Kay continues to spit scathing remarks at the Stormtroopers, until he’s shoved Cassian into a stolen ship and closed the loading doors. He leaves Cassian in the hold, getting them launched and into hyperspace before returning to uncuff him.

‘Thanks,’ Cassian flexes his wrists, checking the circulation.

‘What was that about?’ Kay asks.

‘I don’t know,’ Cassian shakes his head. ‘Thought he’d want to come. He didn’t.’

‘Perhaps he has his own personal security droid to bail him out of every desperate situation he gets into,’ Kay says.

‘Perhaps,’ Cassian echoes. He stares at the splint, the brown and wrinkled leather tied by black fabric. He hadn’t realised how the binding criss-crossed so neatly. ‘Do we have any bacta?’

Kay slaps a compartment door open and tosses a packet in Cassian’s direction. ‘What have you done now?’

‘Nothing major,’ Cassian tells him, then sees the look on Kay’s face. ‘Really. It’ll be gone by tomorrow.’

‘Good,’ Kay says. ‘They rescheduled the rendezvous.’

Cassian takes the bacta to the fresher. He strips off his clothes and gets in the shower. The ship’s sonic isn’t much better than the one in the cell, but at least he can see. He examines the mottled pattern of bruises that circles his waist, twisting to see the shock-prod mark on his lower back. Nothing looks worse than it felt. He slathers the wounds with bacta, and slicks the broken finger. It probably ought to be scanned and splinted, but that can wait.

Cassian takes one look in the mirror before opening the cupboard behind it. He finds scissors, thankfully, turning them in his hands until they’re positioned right. After a second, he realises his eyes have closed. That’s why they’ve stopped stinging.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. Then he shuts the cupboard, staring at his own face in the reflection.

He makes a mess trimming the beard back: by the time he reaches his upper lip, he decides a moustache suits him and it’s not worth the trouble. He rubs more bacta into the bruise on his jaw, and slices off enough of his hair that it won’t get in his eyes anymore.

The worst of the pain is seeping away, and his face looks something like he remembers. He runs his tongue over the inside of his mouth, finding the indentations where he’d bitten it last night.

Maybe longer ago than that. It’s hard to say anymore.

‘When’s the new rendezvous?’ he calls out to Kay, striding into the cockpit. Kay looks him up and down, checking Cassian’s done a good enough job with the bacta.

’Tomorrow,’ Kay says. ‘Assuming your informant doesn’t flee again.’

’Tivik’s got good ears, but no spine,’ Cassian shrugs, sliding into the co-pilot’s seat. ‘If he’s gone to the effort of rescheduling, it’s something big.’

Kay looks at Cassian for a long time. Cassian holds his eye.

‘Fine,’ Kay sighs. ‘Setting a course for the Ring of Kafrene.’

Kay punches in the coordinates, and Cassian lifts his hand. Kay pauses, cocking his head. Cassian stares at the dash. He’s holding his breath.

‘Think your cellmate’s changed his mind?’ Kay guesses. He always guesses right.

Cassian shoves his hand in his pocket, running his thumb over the soft leather. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, the stars are waiting.

‘He’ll be okay,’ Cassian tells Kay. ‘He’s a survivor.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for checking this out! I really thought this ship would be too niche for anyone to be interested. Villains of Circumstance is a direct sequel in the Flying Blind series, then the narrative follows Mando.


End file.
